Two Men in a Slump
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: An optimist and a realist discuss fishing.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

Thanks, Owl and Cheri, for reminding me which team is which and other vital beta services.

**Author's Note: **In the seventh episode of season one—"Once More with Vigorish"— D.A. Pamela ("Don't call me Pammie") Peterson, a woman who once had a crush on Hardcastle, is prosecuting loan shark Frank Kelly. The judge has a personal interest in the case because Kelly walked out of his courtroom on three earlier occasions. History repeats itself yet again when Pam's prime witness backs out at the last moment when his wife is threatened. Pam is seething and makes her feelings known during a TV interview which results in her suspension. She turns to Hardcastle for help and he turns to McCormick to go undercover as a con on the lam, looking for a loan. The plan succeeds and Kelly gets yet another day in court with Mark as the prime (and utterly reliable) witness against him. As the trial is about to begin, Kelly—aided by his henchmen—kidnaps Pam and makes a bid for freedom. Mark and Milt go after them and foil that scheme, too.

In the epilogue, the two meet with Pam for a celebratory lunch. Each has reason to believe she may be interested in the other guy and each makes a noble sacrifice at the table—renouncing his intention to pursue her so she can find true happiness with the other. Just then, another man strolls in and Pam introduces him as her fiance.

**Two Men in a Slump**

by L.M. Lewis

It was a strained and awkward meal. Even Hardcastle, who had a wealth of stories and no compunctions about telling them, seemed off his game. The new addition to the party was one of Pam Peterson's fellow lawyers from the DA's office. He seemed nice enough, despite Mark's attempt to work up a healthy dislike for him—at least for Milt's sake. He was a closer match age-wise for Pam, as well. He was pleasant, friendly, and seemed to have no inkling that his bride-to-be had ever carried a torch for her ex-boss.

Instead, he seemed to treat Hardcastle with the kind of dutiful reverence due to an emeritus member of the profession. That part was a little grating, Mark thought. He'd worked hard at never revealing even a hint of reverence for the man, and he thought Hardcase secretly preferred it that way.

As for himself, he ate distractedly and had to be recalled to the casual conversation several times from a farther-off place. The truth was, he was scrolling back through the past few days, trying to figure out if they'd been intentionally misled, or had merely read more into the situation than was warranted. He was hoping it was the latter, though he couldn't help but remember the hostility that had bristled from DA Peterson when she'd first encountered her old mentor in the courthouse corridor.

And Hardcastle had been oblivious to the possibility that Pamela might be anything but glad to see him that first day. That wasn't surprising, though. The man seemed to have limited reception for certain frequencies.

Eventually the meal ended, and no one seemed inclined to drag it out for too long, least of all the two disappointed suitors. Munson insisted on picking up the tab, the least he could do, he said, for the two men who'd rendered so much assistance to his fiancée. And then they left—the soon-to-be man and wife—his arm around her in an utterly protective gesture and her appearing to accept the symbolism completely.

Mark finally let out a sigh as they watched the two go. He was glad there'd been no awkward, lingering farewells in the parking lot, no promises to get together again—to "stay in touch". He wondered if there'd be an oversized envelope, in a month or so, with an embossed invitation to the wedding--a country-club reception and lots of lawyer-types in attendance, no doubt.

He shuddered. It might possibly have been Hardcase in the monkey suit, with the lawn at Gull's Way as the venue, if the man had acted with dispatch seven years earlier.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" the judge asked gruffly as he got to his feet. "You comin' down with something?"

Mark shrugged. "Near-misses, mighta-beens, you know?"

Hardcastle raised one eyebrow and cast a quick glance in the direction of the happy couple's departure, then gave Mark a dubious look. "Not all that close, if you ask me."

"Maybe not this time," Mark agreed, "but the _last _time around . . .." He cocked one of his own eyebrows suggestively.

"Nah." Hardcastle shook his head. "I wasn't ready and I don't think she was, either."

The judge turned toward the exit, leaving Mark still standing in a moment of puzzlement. He did the math, subtracting the years and adding what other facts he'd gleaned in the past few months. He didn't have to ask for clarification to know that the judge had only become a widower a short time before that. He supposed Pam had known that too. Maybe she had confused her sympathy with some different sort of affection. It seemed typical that Hardcastle would be the one to keep his head in the middle of that kind of turmoil.

Mark frowned and followed the other man out. They retrieved the Coyote from the valet and headed for home without returning to the discussion. In fact, the conversation never strayed outside the safe confines of the Rams' expectations for next Sunday's outing and the never-ending list of chores that had been pushed aside back at the estate to accommodate the Lone Ranger's latest mission.

"Okay," Mark finally grumbled as he pulled into the drive, "I'll get at the pruning if you call the plumber and have him take a look at the gatehouse shower. Look, all you'll have to do is use your dialing finger—heck, _I'll_ even do the dialing," he added as he climbed out of the car.

Hardcastle muttered as he unlocked the front door. It was something mostly unintelligible that might have been a comment on the cost of union work these days. Mark ignored him, breezing by and heading for the phone and the Rolodex on the desk. The blinking light on the answering machine blocked his forward momentum for a moment.

"Message," he said over his shoulder. Such things were invariably for the judge, not him, unless it was Dalem or someone higher up in the parole board calling to make dutiful inquiries about him. _Snooping_, Mark called it, and he resented it mightily.

This time though, the first words out of the box when Hardcastle hit the button were, "_This message is for Mr. Mark McCormick._" It was a pleasant and oddly familiar voice, though businesslike and even slightly formal. "_This is Tanya Gray from the KCED Morning News Team and I'd like to speak to him about the possibility of doing an in-depth interview._"

Businesslike, yes, but to Mark there was a hint of excitement in the woman's pitch, and the number she gave for him to contact her at didn't sound like the general switchboard down at the station. He scribbled it hastily on the notepad.

"_Hah_," he said, hitting the button that reset the machine. "Did you hear that, Kemosabe? The lady said an _in-depth_ interview."

"Gray," Hardcastle shook his head as he eased past the other man and sank into his chair. "I dunno, kid, gray hasn't been your lucky color."

"What?" Mark protested. "One woman named Gray tries to get me killed and I'm supposed to cross them _all _off my list?"

"Besides," Hardcastle mulled on, "it's just a news interview. You go all the way down to the station, she asks you three questions, and they edit it down to a fifteen-second spot and stick it in-between the weather and the traffic report."

"Uh-uh, no way. Did you see the way she lunged at me on those courthouse steps?"

"Don't wear the plaid shirt. Plaid doesn't work so good on TV."

"She's interested in me, Judge. I can tell when a woman is interested."

"You can, huh? Then what happened with Pammie?"

Mark opened his mouth to correct the nickname, then just as suddenly decided to let it be. Pammie didn't need any help from him anymore. Instead he considered the question and finally commented, "I didn't think she was interested in me. I thought it was _you_ she was saving herself for. Anyway," he tore the sheet off the pad and studied it, "should I call her back right away? Or maybe wait till tonight—play hard to get."

Hardcastle sat back further in his chair and rolled his eyes.

"'May I speak to Ms. Gray?'" Mark intoned. "Or maybe, 'Is Tanya there? I just got her message.' Whaddaya think?"

"I think your turn-around time is pretty fast for a guy with the kinda track record you have."

Mark paused in the contemplation of his approach and gave Hardcastle a wry look. "Hey, I just think it's important to get back up in the saddle. The glass is half-full, right? Though in your case I think it's half-full of prune juice."

Hardcastle snorted. It might have been disapproval, but Mark thought he was more likely stifling a laugh. He decided that was a good thing, getting the guy laughing again.

"See," he continued in an almost academic mode, "it's like this—if you don't put your line in the water, how ya gonna land the big one?"

"In your case it's more like throwing the net out, and you wind up hauling in the weirdest stuff . . . some of 'em even _bite_."

Mark didn't like the direction this was taking. He sighed and switched metaphors abruptly. "I figure if just one in three dates turns out okay, then I'm batting .333, and that's major league stuff."

He'd looked down as he'd been talking and was staring at the scrap of paper in his hand—another lottery ticket in the game of life. Now he glanced up to see if Hardcastle was buying any of this. He hadn't made any more of his typical comments.

The judge's gaze was angled off to his right. Mark didn't have to look that way to know he was probably fixed on a particular black and white photo that sat on the shelf over there. His expression wasn't morose, but there might've been just a touch of regret, as though for something long gone but still missed.

Mark smiled. He didn't say the next part very loud; he figured he was pretty much talking to himself at this point.

"And if just _one_ of those turns out to be the right one . . . well, I'd be happy."

He saw the judge shift, his gaze coming unglued from the photograph and fixing back on him as though something had suddenly occurred to him.

"You know it isn't every day that a DA gets kidnapped out of a courtroom and the prime witness in the trial runs down the bad guys and rescues her."

"Yeah," Mark said. "Where do you suppose ol' Munson was during _that_?"

"In the law library, probably," Hardcastle said with a tone of disgust. "Ya know, kid, Lancelot and King Arthur never got the girl."

"Then who did?"

"She wound up with a guy named Munson—that's how these things work." He shook his head as if he regretted having to be the one to explain the sad, hard facts of life to McCormick, then he started up again, "This Tawny—"

"Tanya—it's _Tanya_ Gray," Mark corrected patiently—after all, Hardcastle might wind up performing the ceremony.

"Tanya, whatever—she might really be after you."

"Yeah, like I said."

"I mean, a really in-depth—"

"I'll let her go as deep as she wants."

"Shaddup, will ya? I'm serious here," the judge said impatiently. "She does this interview with you, the cameras rolling and you sitting there with your plaid shirt on, and it gets shown on TV and that's it."

"That's what?"

"Every bad guy in the county'll know who you are and that you work for me—_that's_ what. Next time you go undercover, well, you won't be able to tell 'em you're J.J. Slattery, or some hot-shot concert promoter, or any of that stuff." Hardcastle said solemnly. "I suppose we'll have to disguise you."

He frowned as he appeared to be thinking on this for a moment, and then his eyes lifted and a smile dawned.

"I know—we can cut off all that hair."

Mark swallowed once, hard, and then gritted his teeth. He looked down and noticed the scrap of paper was now crunched tightly in his fist. He loosened his jaw, spread his fingers with a conscious effort of will, and dropped the crumpled wad unceremoniously into the waste-basket.

"You sure?" Hardcastle said in some surprise. "She's attractive—probably smart, too."

"There are," Mark said with firm resolve, "plenty of fish in the sea."


End file.
